Two in the Morning at the Quidditch Pitch
by mrsProbie
Summary: It's two in the morning at the Quidditch Pitch. Hermione Granger is mentally floating away, forgetting her grief, when the presence of another being interrupts her solitude. Written for AlwaysPadfoot's 52 Weeks of Writing, Week 2.


Written for AlwaysPadfoot's "52 Weeks of Writing 2013 Competition," Week 2.

Compulsory prompt(s) used: Grief, 'Is that what I think it is?', Slytherin, Broomstick

Optional prompt(s) used: N/A

Bonus point prompt used: N/A

* * *

I hadn't been sleeping well since the "final battle." The counseling had been helping, but that had stopped when I started school again, my seventh year. Stupid, really. I should've kept going, kept attending, but it would've interfered with my studies and until March I was capable of putting things off. But then, the air smelling just as it had almost a year before, I couldn't keep out of my mind the memories of that night, the friends and family lost- the spells whizzing past faster than I could even see, fast enough to make my hair stand on end, thinking we'd lost Harry, lost it all.

I'd taken to sneaking out during the night. If I wore myself out crying from grief and wandering around the grounds, I could fall into something akin to a Dreamless Sleep when I returned to my dorm. My favorite place was the Quidditch Pitch. Although I'd never particularly enjoyed or even appreciated the game, it reminded me of my boys and happier times, and even the painful wistfulness of happy memories was better than the usual rotation of Remus, Tonks, Colin Creevey, Fred, and the rest. I would've snuck into the boys' dorm and laughed away- perhaps drunk away a little of- the pain with them, the same way we stayed up all night together during the summer, but Harry and Ron were off at the Ministry doing Auror training, taking advantage of their honorary Hogwarts degrees.

I, on the other hand, was determined to acquire this degree of my own accord. Few of us were- the "eighth-year class" was comprised of just over a dozen students, half of whom were present only because their parents had insisted. Surprisingly, of the three Slytherins present (Malfoy, Zabini, and Greengrass), each was in attendance of his or her own accord.

My mind drifted as the moon- waxing, rather pretty- rose higher and higher into the sky. It appeared to shrink, though I knew it was a matter of perception. I tried to pinch the moon between my first finger and my thumb, then bring my hand down closer to the horizon to see if it seemed bigger than I remembered- optical illusions are a wonderful way to distract oneself. One of my favorites was- what was that? My hand flew down to my hip, where my wand lay in my holster.

Leaves were rustling. Not as though a small animal were jumping through them. Not in that romantic, poetic sort of way where the trees and the leaves are having some sort of existential conversation. There was a person there. "Who's there?" I cried in a low voice. It wouldn't kid anyone into thinking I was a man, but perhaps they wouldn't recognize me as Hermione Granger. The rustling stopped abruptly. I held my breath. It resumed, the source of the movement growing steadily closer. And closer. I glanced around, too tired to be reasonable- I saw the hoops and conjured the first potential blunt weapon that came to mind: a broomstick.

As soon as the thing appeared in my hands, I wanted to beat my_self_ with it. Really? A broomstick? I couldn't even fly! And my stupid self summoned a damned broomstick. What on earth was I thinking? I really needed more sleep. The rustling leaves were growing closer- they were right behind me- I stopped berating myself and simply swung the broomstick around as hard as I possibly could, eyes shut tight with the concentration of throwing all my strength into the blow.

"Son of a _bitch!_" cried none other than Draco Malfoy.

I took a deep breath, recovering from the near-hyperventilation. "Malfoy?"

"Fuck, Granger!" Malfoy was on the ground now, clutching his right arm in pain. I wasn't particularly sorry. He could've replied when I cried out. "Yes, it's me- Merlin's pants!"

I cast a quick, temporary painkilling spell, something I'd picked up from Madame Pomfrey, having been in and out of the hospital wing with Harry for six years of school. Then, an overly dramatic gasp. "Is that what I think it is?" I smirked. "Is Malfoy out of class?" He frowned. "Malfoy, who's been on such great behavior all year?" My smile only grew wider as his frown grew deeper. "And you were pretending that you were behaving so _well_! It was only because you were sneaking out at night!"

"Yes, Granger," he nearly spat, "because you're clearly _so_ much better-"

"I don't pretend to be," I deadpanned. "I stopped doing that, pretending."

Malfoy snorted.


End file.
